


Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow

by Detochkina



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Romance, Translation from Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 03:51:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Detochkina/pseuds/Detochkina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things last for centuries, binding together time itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Вчера, сегодня, завтра](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068573) by [Sabira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabira/pseuds/Sabira). 



> I fell in love with this story when I first read it over a year ago and nothing gives me a better pleasure than to give it a chance to be loved by more readers.  
> Written by [Sabira](../users/Sabira/pseuds/Sabira) as a birthday gift for [ la_novocaina](../users/la_novocaina).  
> This translation as my Christmas present to both of them. Wishing you the best this holiday season!  
> The gorgeous art for this story was done by amazing [barbitone](../users/barbitone/pseuds/barbitone). Thank you for this beauty!  
> Special thanks to my translation betas **[M](https://twitter.com/EditsandSnark)** and **[ememmyem](http://ememmyem.livejournal.com/)**

 

 

 

~*~

_.Hide nothing, for time, which sees all and hears all, exposes all_

Sophocles

 

 

 

**Prologue**

 

He ends up getting stuck in a traffic jam on Pump Street, and that's the most exciting event he’s had all week. Newport in the summer is a dead town, turning lethargic when hit with a brutal, exhausting, endless heatwave. The infamous nightlife keeps swinging -- at least it seems like it, but even there, lads and birds are somewhat lazy: they sip their cocktails, sluggishly kick it on the dance floor, and shag without much enthusiasm, as if it’s a chore, in the stalls of the loo. Vacant and lax, the same faces, the same conversations, day after day. Blurry, like old photographs blown up too large on the screen.

The shirt is clinging everywhere. Sweltering on the back and the neck, sweat beading on the temples, the bridge of the nose, under the pits. Cold morning shower is a distant memory that seems more like a hallucination. Arthur changes lanes and dives into a small gap between cars. Citroen behind him honks with irritation.

Arthur takes Waters Lane and crawls after the slowly chugging along bus on Stow Hill. Finally, he merges into the Skinner Street, speeds up a little and breaks onto Kingsway. He can exhale now.

It’s still hot on the motorway, steam coming up from the Tarmac, and the smell of burnt tire (Ford brakes with a squeak in front of him, probably another amateur behind the wheel) unpleasantly tickles his nose; nonetheless, it’s more comfortable here. Arthur loves his city, but driving there isn’t exactly a delight. He’d rather choose this grey viscous weave with patches of a black tar, although it’s unclear what’s so royal about it.

As soon as he reaches the ring, he’s stuck in another traffic jam. Cars, buses, and lorries form a line, waiting their turn to take an exit, the drivers exchanging a few words, those especially sly finding an opportunity to flirt with the girls with mascara running under their eyes from the heat. Arthur retrieves a bottle of water from the glove box. Thanks to the isothermic conditions inside of it, the water is cold and delicious, and the world seems a lot more agreeable than just a minute ago.

He isn’t too mad at Morgana -- slight irritation at most. His sister could have visited herself instead of demanding for Arthur to come to the campus. Whatever has he to do in Caerleon? Even now, during summer break, it’s overpopulated with students. And Arthur is too tired of people.

But Morgana insisted, “You must come.” There was something hidden in her voice, and he couldn’t flat-out refuse. Something mysterious.

On the other hand, Morgana was always good with those things. Since childhood, when she’d wake up in tears after another nightmare and wouldn’t utter a word about what she’d seen. And Arthur simply stayed with her for the rest of the night until the morning, petting her hair and letting her clutch at his old t-shirt.

Church Road is busy, but Arthur knows all the tricks -- where to change to the right lane, and where the left lane moves faster. He makes it to Caerleon in fifteen minutes, shows his ID at the entrance of the building, and goes to find his sister.

The hallways are clean and empty. One o’clock in the afternoon; everyone’s asleep. He reads the plates on the door: numbers, names, stickers with the favorite groups and half-naked models. Morgana’s room is at the very end. Arthur pushes the door with the graffiti -- Kurt Cobain grimly staring at the visitors.

Just like he thought, Morgana is lying around on the couch. Huge headphones dangling from her neck, bare feet propped on the back of the couch, and there’s a grease spot on her neon-green shorts. Windows are open wide and the curtains are bubbling out from the occasional dash of air from outside. Morgana is pressing a phone to her ear and gestures at him to wait.

“Mo, I’ll call you back,” she says and laughs at something said on the other end. “Yes, at nine, as usual. I won’t be late. Take care. Kisses.”

The phone goes silent and is dropped soundly on the table, and Morgana sits up, fixing the white strap of the top.

“Arthur.” She stretches her arms to him, like she’s thirteen again.

He yanks her up by the wrists and catches in an embrace. No matter what, he’s missed her a lot.

Morgana makes a lemonade, and Arthur builds huge sandwiches. They settle on the floor, using two thick Cosmos as their table. Morgana bites into her grub, smearing mayo all over her mouth, and licks tomato juice off her palm.

“So, why am I here?” Arthur asks, trying not to drip all over his shorts.

“I haven’t seen you this whole blasted year, mister I’m-too-busy-for-you,” Morgana reminds him.

“Did you consider coming home for the break?” Arthur holds the top of the bread.

Morgana empties her glass of lemonade with one gulp. “And ruin your holiday?”

“Please, don’t try to play noble.” Arthur smirks and pulls at the lettuce with his teeth. “I know my birds don’t bother you.”

“Birds -- no.” Morgana snorts.

Arthur frowns. It’s an old story, and he doesn’t want to think about it. It’s been four years -- why stir up the past? It was teenage folly, strange infatuation, three blistering months and his inexperienced eighteen years of age.

“You know well that--”

“Merlin is in the parallel class with me,” Morgana says calmly and rises to her feet. She rummages for ice in the fridge for awhile, shakes out the clear cubes into her glass, and adds more lemonade.

“And you’re telling me this now?” Arthur’s trying to gather his thoughts, but it’s not working.

“I didn’t want to say anything at all. But Mo said she saw him in the ruins.”

“Did he ask… about me?” The tension doesn’t want to leave, to disappear in the yellow haze.

“No. Not once.” Morgana sits across from him and studies him. “He doesn’t remember. Not you, not me.”

Arthur places his glass on Carey Mulligan’s shoulder while she smiles happily at him from the cover of the magazine, and he thinks he shouldn’t have come back here to Newport. There’s nothing worse than poking at old wounds and bringing back memories. Especially concerning a person who called him a clotpole.

Instead of changing topic, Arthur starts asking questions.

 

 

 

 

**Yesterday**

 

“Bugger off.” Arthur climbs the rotting stairs, placing one foot carefully on the boards that still look intact, and repeats, “Bugger off. I mean it, arsehole.”

The stranger is visibly younger, and his face is not familiar to Arthur. Arthur’s sure the boy is new to Newport. The town is considered relatively large, but it’s just an illusion. Everyone knows everyone here. And the skinny, big-eared bloke with a crow’s nest on his head is not someone Arthur recognises. He gives him another once-over, regarding him closely, paying attention to every detail. Crusted from dirt trainers, baggy jeans, faded t-shirt, sweater, tied around waist. Thin arms with red patches of dry skin on the elbows, sharp, narrowed at the end face, full lips, smooth chin, eyes deep in the sockets, and huge, seriously enormous ears.

“What’s wrong with you?” The stranger looks at him with caution and smiles warily. “By the way, I’m Merlin.”

“I don’t give a shite.” Arthur stops a couple of yards away. They are separated by a small hole in the floor. It’s not that dangerous, even if he falls through it; it’s only a foot from the ground. The foundation under the porch was never properly done. “This is my spot. Go away.”

“It’s not a private property,” the bloke argues, pushing his hands into his pockets. His shoulders slump, collarbones jut out even sharper, threatening to cut through the fabric of the t-shirt at any moment. “You can’t order me away.”

Arthur feels irritation. The ruins are his territory. Yes, the abandoned Cusacks’ house doesn’t belong to anyone; the land is in the hands of the local authorities now. But Arthur’s loved coming here since he was a boy. Even if for one reason: he’s guaranteed to be here alone. People avoid this dilapidated building. Kids exchange stories about ghosts, adults call it the “haunted house”, but it’s all bollocks.

Arthur likes this house, despite the rotted staircase and the holes in the floor on the second storey. On the sunny days he sits on the edge of the porch, dangling his feet and chewing on the grass straws. On the rainy ones -- waits for it to pass in the kitchen where the roof is still almost intact. His domain is the best, no matter how others look at it. And he’s not going to share it with someone else.

Arthur has no right to oust the unwelcome guest, but he can do something else: the stranger looks like a twig and it won’t be that hard to kick his arse. But then he’ll have to haul him all the way to the nearby road, or wherever he left his… what exactly did this bloke arrive here on? Arthur frowns. He doesn’t remember a bicycle near the house, or a bike, or a scooter. And he’s definitely too young to drive.

“How did you get here? How did you even find this place?”

“I walked.” The stranger shrugs. “Just wandered around and ended up here.”

“Quit lying.” Arthur leans on the ivy-covered, carved pillar. “Heard some scary stories from the locals and decided to prove what a daredevil you are, didn’t you?”

“What stories?” The guy looks at him incredulously, his bright-blue eyes open wide, and Arthur sees that he isn’t having him on. “It’s cosy here.”

Arthur can’t remember anyone ever calling the Cusacks’ house like that. “And what were you doing here?”

The bloke gives him a strange look -- wary, shy -- as if he’s trying to figure out if he can trust Arthur. The correct answer is no, but the stranger decides otherwise.

“I was thinking of a story,” he admits and smiles with the corner of his mouth. “I was imagining a big, airy hall, and a feast. Many people, men and women, dressed up in rich, bright clothes and wearing large rings with unrefined stones. Long tables, covered with plates full of food, pitchers with wines, dishes, loaded with a grilled wild boar, a deer, ducks and rabbits. And there was a lady. In a yellow dress and with long black hair. Not too young, but beautiful and tall. She sang. In some old language. But not a song -- a spell. And people around the room started falling asleep from her voice; people themselves, the tables, the chairs, the dishes -- everything started to disappear under the growing grey web. And the lady kept singing and singing, and kept moving.”

“Moving where?” Arthur asks, unsure how to react to all this.

“I don’t know.” The boy shakes his head, looking frustrated. “I can’t even think of a name for her. Lady… how should I name her?”

“Helen.” The name falls from Arthur's lips before he even gives it a thought. “Lady Helen.”

The boy nods and smiles, series of wrinkles forming around his eyes.

“I like that. Lady Helen. I reckon she plotted something foul.”

“Like any witch.” Arthur isn’t sure how to get out of this strange conversation. And does he even want to?

The boy looks like he wants to disagree, but he doesn’t.

“I annoy you,” he says, and Arthur repeats the intonation of his voice in his head, looking for a hint of a question. Which is not there. The stranger is not doubting it; he is stating a fact. And he’s right, but now, Arthur would never admit that. So he decides to change the topic.

“So, how did you get here? The town isn’t close.”

“I walked for a really long time. It was like I had to come here.” The boy frowns pensively. “I don’t regret it.”

“ _I_ regret it.”

The stranger looks at him from under the sullen line of his brows, bites his lip in thought, and goes silent for awhile. Arthur doesn’t rush him. He traces his finger over the strong green stems and thin, smooth leaves of ivy and waits.

“Sorry,” the boy says sincerely and pulls up the slipped-down sweater back to his waist. “But I’ll be coming here again.”

“No.” Arthur is satisfied with how his refusal sounds. Sharp and harsh. Like in the movies with superheroes.

“Yes,” the stranger argues softly. “Don’t be such an arse. I won’t be in the way.”

“You’re already in the way,” Arthur retorts, aware that he’s probably already lost. It feels strange -- the fact of losing itself and that he can’t be arsed about it. Normally, Arthur doesn’t stand for losing. He’s always first in everything -- the winner, the very best.

The stranger doesn’t find it necessary to react, simply studying him again. With a practiced roll of his shoulders, Arthur straightens up. He knows he’s a looker. Sod it, he has style, he’s in great shape, and has an alpha air about him; he’s already finished first year of uni and his father is proud of him. He has success written all over him and the keys from a bike in his pocket.

But instead of a begrudging awe in the stranger’s eyes, there’s barely a slight interest.

“So yes,” the boy says, ending the stare-down. And repeats, “I’m Merlin.”

Arthur grudgingly shakes the offered narrow palm, dry and as bony as the rest of Merlin. And tells him his name.

 

 

 

 

~*~

 

“Hey,” comes from downstairs, and there’s no need to look at the person speaking.

Arthur sighs soundly and gets up. His body’s numb -- he sat for too long without moving. His legs are tingly, and the wrist of his left hand feels foreign, boneless, and soft like elastic.

“Do you ever do as you’re told?” Arthur carefully slides down through the hole, supporting himself on the edges. The landing happens quietly and gracefully.

“You’re the only person I know here.” Merlin looks happy. Almost as if he missed him.

“Want to make new mates? I’m not a good candidate.” Arthur decides to play polite for a bit. Maybe then Merlin leaves?

“I like you, although…”

“Although?”

“You act like a cabbage-head. Think you’re the bee’s knees.”

“I’m realistic.” Arthur crosses his arms on his chest and tries to convince himself to be more patient.

“Sure.” Merlin doesn’t argue. “It’s sort of cute.”

“Whatever you forgot in Newport?” Arthur thinks he’s not going to discuss his merits with a person who dares to call him cute.

“I’m here with my mum. On business. But might stay for awhile.” Merlin absentmindedly rubs his chin; his pointer finger catches his lower lip and pulls a bit to the side.

“And I’m going back to uni in a few weeks,” Arthur announces. “Came here to visit my dad and my sister.”

“Missed them?” Merlin asks with a sincere interest and, without checking, plops himself on the beam.

Arthur barely manages to take a step and grab him by the elbow. The beam crashes to the ground.

“Idiot,” he hisses through his teeth, letting this suicidal daftie go.

“Thank you,” Merlin murmurs and turns with apprehension. “I thought of another story.”

“Are you mental?” Arthur asks, being completely serious. “You could’ve broken your neck just now. And you’re rabbiting about a bloody story.”

“About a liar-knight,” Merlin answers, like it’s nothing. “And no, I’m not mental. Just clumsy.”

“I noticed.” Arthur tries to hang on to that feeling -- the irritation -- but it’s not working. It’s too quiet and peaceful here for that, and the place itself is familiar and feels like home. Having Merlin here doesn’t make it worse.

“Think he’ll poison his opponents to win the tournament?” Merlin ruffles his hair.

“No.” Arthur unwittingly joins the game. “He’ll have an enchanted shield.”

“Don’t you hate magic?” Merlin looks with caution at the window and at the wide sill.

“It’s sturdy, go ahead.” Arthur nods. “At the end, magic's nothing but evil. Anyway, the shield will have three snakes. During the fight, they’ll come to life and strike the opponent.”

“That’s cheating.” Merlin seems excited. It’s as if he’s glowing from the inside, and about to start clapping his hands.

They spend another half an hour thinking the story through. They name the victim Sir Evan. Arthur waves it off and doesn’t clarify that that’s the name of his assignment partner, who didn’t do his work on the project properly the entire semester. They find the name for the knight as well: Valiant sounds crude and too obvious, but they like it. And then a knight in shining armor (“Arthur,” adds Merlin with a smile) chops the snakes’ heads off and jabs the cheater to death right in the stadium.

Arthur mentally celebrates his victory. In the haze of his mind, he sees the arena, the yellow-green coat of arms next to the golden-red, and hears the applause of the crowd. He remembers “A Knight’s Tale” with Ledger and barely contains himself from humming “We Are The Champions”.

Merlin smiles again, bids goodbye, and leaves.  Otherwise his mum will worry. And for some reason, Arthur isn’t making a joke about him being a “mummy’s boy”.

They meet again the next day, and the next, and then -- again. They don’t agree on the time, but still somehow manage to come at the same hour, and Arthur pretends to be peeved. Merlin obediently apologises, finds himself a spot, and starts making up yet another story. His imagination has no limits and affects Arthur in the most peculiar ways. He helps Merlin with the tales. Sometimes Merlin can’t think of a name or of a new plot twist. Then, it’s Arthur’s turn. The images float up in his mind, the words falling off his tongue, and Merlin happily nods and takes it from there.

They invent a city where the water is poisoned by the monster lodging in the well (and then switch topic and have a long about talk about ecology). Then, there’s a restless knight, who's come to demand justice. A sorcerer, who tries to kill a fair princess (“Morgana,” Arthur adds firmly). There’s an attack of bandits and a heroic prince, who saves an entire village. Arthur loves tales involving acts of bravery; that’s why, on one of these days, he starts his own story. And that’s when a lowly peasant becomes sick and only the prince can save him from the imminent death.

Arthur can’t figure out what’s so captivating in these children’s stories -- and in Merlin himself. Normally, he’s interested in something completely different, and for sure, he is not a kid anymore. He didn’t come back to Newport to spend half of his days in the ruins and in the company of a bloke he knows practically nothing about.

They rarely discuss anything personal. Arthur limits it to a few phrases about his father and sister, glides over anything related to uni. Merlin mumbles something about “finishing school and possibly getting into Caerleon”. In the grand scheme of things, Arthur doesn’t give a rat’s arse what’s happening in Merlin’s life, but he’s glad when the boy mentions his address by some accident and the information plants itself in his brain.

Because two weeks later, when Arthur spends an entire day at the ruins and Merlin doesn’t show up, Arthur knows where to look.

 

 

 

 

~*~

 

He doesn’t need to ring the door -- or even get off his bike. Merlin comes out of the house first. He’s sporting a fresh cut on his cheekbone, a bleeding corner of the mouth, and a shiner.

“Got into trouble after all.” Somewhere deep inside, Arthur feels avenged. He warned him. So, whose territory had Merlin violated this time?

“Couldn’t just walk by.” Merlin leans on a flimsy fence.

Arthur quizzically arches his brow and tilts his head. Just like his father when he’s about to lecture him or Morgana. Merlin sighs deeply.

“Some wankers bullied my friend; I interfered. I think they were from a local gang -- they wore yellow and red t-shirts.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. He has an idea who Merlin’s talking about. Red and yellow are the colors of Newport. And the local duffs indeed use them to jostle strangers for money or simply for fun.

“Then you got off easy.” Arthur studies him carefully. It doesn’t look like under Merlin’s t-shirt he has bruises or cracked ribs.

“Was lucky.” Merlin waves it off. “You waited for me? I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t,” Arthur deadpans and kicks off his bike. Nothing else to do here for him.

 

 

 

 

~*~

 

On the weekend, his father’s finally free, and they all take a trip to Cardiff. “For a change of scenery and to relax”.

Arthur decides not to leave a note in the ruins. It doesn’t concern Merlin, where he’s gone.

On Monday, Arthur spends half a day in torment whether to go to the Cusacks' house or not. He’s sure Merlin’s waiting for him. And he wants him to wait some more. It’s not revenge. At least Arthur's somewhat successful convincing himself it’s not.

The clock on the tower strikes four times when he takes his bike out of the garage.

At first, Arthur thinks that he’s wrong and Merlin isn’t in the house. He’s angry; he’s upset. Arthur runs up the stairs, which are damp from the drizzling rain, and freezes at the kitchen door. Merlin’s there, sitting on the window sill, exposing his back to the rain.

Arthur sees the dark dots on the fabric that have almost turned into one big spot. Merlin’s hunched over, the bumps of his spine look like pins, and the ends of his hair cling to his neck.

Arthur flushes from a spike of a hot wave of shame. He knows that no one made Merlin come here. He doesn’t owe Arthur anything. He…

Going over and tugging him by the shoulder turns out to be surprisingly easy. Merlin doesn’t fight him, doesn’t lift his eyes, doesn’t say anything, deep in his own thoughts.

 _In his own stories there alone_ , adds Arthur to himself.

“Maybe you’re a sociopath? Or something like that?”

Merlin pouts his lips, thinking.

“No.” He shakes his head. “Definitely not. I saw a shrink in my previous school. I’m fine.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed it." Arthur’s still clutching at the t-shirt, feeling the heat of a body through the fabric.

“It’s this place affecting me. The house. And the town.”

Arthur has no idea what to say. Merlin is talking rubbish -- he’s falling into the abyss made up in his own mind and he’s dragging Arthur with him. Pulling him head-deep into a world of strange fantasies. Arthur feels like a character from _Solaris_ , or maybe from one of the books by Dean Koontz.

Arthur doesn’t like any of those realities: they have no structure, no bounds, logic or sense. He pushes Merlin away and Merlin nearly falls out of the window, comically flailing and grabbing Arthur’s shirt. Arthur catches him by the wrist and helps him to keep on his feet. A flare of anger dies down.

“Don’t leave like that again,” Merlin pleads quietly, still crumpling the fabric between his fingers.

When Arthur pulls him to himself and starts kissing, the first peal of thunder rocks the sky in the distance.

Lightning flashes across his sharp features, colors the irises of Merlin’s eyes into bright gold. Arthur’s quiet; warm and comfortable, he doesn’t want to think about anything.

“I think I have to go,” Merlin says calmly. “Before the rain really starts.”

“You’ll be soaked by the time you get home,” Arthur argues, irritated by the broken silence and by the all-wrong words. “Come with me.”

He pulls Merlin by his hand, squeezing his cold fingers, and then pushes him in the back, between his shoulders, making the wet shirt stick to his skin. Merlin flinches and shivers, but doesn’t protest. Somewhere afar, the thunder is still rolling. Another flash of light zaps through the sky as the drops of rain heavily beat on the ground, skate down on the blades of the grass, and splash the rocks in color. It’s not cold outside, the opposite -- kind of nice. Arthur inserts the key into the ignition, waits for Merlin to stop fussing, and hands him a helmet.

“It would suit you better,” comes a pensive voice from behind.

One glance from Arthur is enough to shut Merlin up. His hands wrap firmly around Arthur’s waist, and the touch feels calculatingly _indifferent_. Morgana hugs him like that. But Morgana is his sister, and he's known Merlin only for a couple of weeks.

The bike roars, the engine working steadily and loudly, and the road is empty. It’s too early for the evening traffic, and the bad weather has the locals cancel their plans and stay home. Arthur passes by the constable at the junction (they know each other, and the guy is well aware whose son Arthur is), turns to the side street and runs his hand over his face, shaking off the excess of water.

“Stow Hill,” Merlin says.

“Where else.” Arthur shrugs. “Although Morgana always wanted to live in Pillgwenlly.”

“Wasn't posh enough?” Merlin guesses.

“Exactly.” Arthur clicks the remote to open the garage door.

Merlin climbs off the bike, takes off the helmet, smoothes down his hair, and looks around.

“I don’t even know the models of these cars,” he comments a bit later.

“Leave it,” Arthur dismisses it. He appreciates the status, proud of his father; he can’t fathom the idea of not _measuring up_ , but he has no interest in showing off and boasting in front of Merlin.

He peeks into the kitchen and asks Leila to make them tea and sandwiches and leads Merlin upstairs, into his room. The house is empty: his father is not home yet, and Morgana -- already. Arthur turns his wardrobe upside down, looking for something suitable for Merlin size-wise, and thinks he should’ve checked in Morgana’s. Giving up, he simply pulls the first t-shirt from the shelf ( _At least it’s dry_ , he thinks) and throws it to Merlin.

Merlin strips off, pulling up his own t-shirt and nearly choking himself on the collar, and of course drowns in the abundance of bright-red fabric with the half-faded print on the chest. The only readable word there is “destiny”, the rest impossible to make out.

“What do you think is happening?” Merlin asks, settling on the bed with his legs crossed. He looks ordinary like this, and not like someone from another reality.

“Thunderstorm.” Arthur shrugs.

But Merlin isn’t going to let him avoid the question.

“I’m here less than a month; a little longer and I’ll go bonkers. Do people go mental often in Newport?”

Arthur considers it.

“I wouldn’t say so. It’s a pretty quiet place; nothing going on to fly off your rocker.”

Merlin sighs, scratches his knee through his jeans, and gives him a watery smile.

“I’m not at all what you think,” he declares after a pause.

“We’re all not what we seem.” Arthur’s distracted by the knock on the door and accepts the tray from Leila.

Arthur joins Merlin on the bed, hands him a cup of tea, and takes a chicken sandwich from the plate. Merlin does the same, and for a while, all they do is chew and pretend that everything’s great. Although it’s far from the truth.

“I have this feeling,” Arthur says slowly, trying to find the right words, “that I can do to you anything I want.”

“You can,” Merlin agrees.

Arthur waits for him to add something else. To display some emotion. A chuckle, maybe, that would make this statement a joke. But Merlin is serious. He drinks his tea and doesn’t look scared at all by his own… dependency on Arthur? Belonging? Submissiveness?

“Anything at all?” Arthur clarifies. “Like, hit you?”

“That too.” Merlin slurps noisily and smiles blissfully.

“And you’d just take it?” Arthur doesn’t feel lost anymore, just curious.

“You wouldn’t hit me,” Merlin explains patiently. “But if you did…”

Arthur’s thankful that Merlin doesn’t finish; the answer is obvious, the unsaid “yes” hanging in the air and fogging Arthur’s mind. The feeling of this strange power awakens the kind of yearning inside him he's never known before.

“Is that why you put up with my snogging?” Arthur's been allowed to be present during his father’s business meetings since he was ten. He's learned how to ask the right questions.

“I didn’t put up with it.” Merlin shakes his head with a huff and bites his lip.

And then, the cups with tea are sent to the floor to join the tray lowered earlier, and Merlin’s body is pinned down to the bed.

“You’re already sixteen, right?” Arthur asks, slowly stroking his ribs under the shirt. His body feels familiar.

“I’m almost seventeen,” Merlin responds, pushing his fingers through Arthur’s hair. “So, you don’t know what’s happening?”

“No.” Arthur shakes his head and starts kissing Merlin’s cheeks and jaw. “You’re not going to resist me?”

“I don’t want to.” Merlin traces the tips of his fingers on the side of Arthur’s neck. “Are you going to fuck me?”

“Probably.” Arthus isn’t sure all the way, but the question makes him listen to his own feelings inside him. His pulse is fast, heart thrumming, his breath is hitching, and he feels tight in the crotch. He has an erection, although when exactly he became hard is not clear.

Arthur lowers his hand, drags it over Merlin’s warm side and to his belly and finally reaches the destination. Merlin’s fly bulges up, and Arthur can feel his erection under the rough fabric. Arthur slowly draws one finger over the metal zip, pressing in a little.

Merlin hisses and turns his head, biting himself in the shoulder. Arthur stretches up, catching him by his chin, and makes him look at him. Unwittingly, he notes the wet sickle-shaped mark from his teeth on the shirt. And it’s like something clicks in his head.

His own movements feel foreign, unfamiliar. He slows down, helping Merlin to undress, prolonging the moment of his next caress, next touch. There’s a vague feeling of not trusting himself fully and his own body. It’s like getting back on a bicycle after a long time. It’s not a problem to keep the balance or push the pedals, but there’s still a need to hold firmer onto the handle bars -- for the first few minutes. And then, the confidence washes over -- an unexplainable feeling of “I know how and I can” -- and everything slots into its place.

For some reason, Arthur’s certain Merlin feels the same way.

Merlin turns quiet, breathes with his mouth open, and squeezes his eyes shut, painfully clutching at Arthur’s shoulder when Arthur starts kissing the hollow of his belly. Merlin doesn’t act reticent; he isn’t shamelessly wanton, either. Everything feels natural, simple, necessary.

“It’s hot,” Merlin whispers as soon as Arthur leans over him, pressing his palms into the crumpled duvet painted with flowers.

“Me too,” Arthur admits, raising his palm and brushing his knuckles over Merlin’s jaw.

Merlin touches his chest, traces his fingers from Arthur’s nipples to the center, and then spreads them over his chest again. Freezes there, as if trying to feel for something, but Arthur knows there are no marks. He only has one scar -- a bite below his knee -- an old sport injury.

Arthur sighs, leans forward, and carefully glides his tongue across Merlin’s bottom lip -- draws it in, feeling Merlin responding, opening up, wanting. Merlin pulls Arthur close, kisses him back, wet and insistent -- breathing into his ear, sucks on the skin of his neck next to the pulsing jugular and then licks over it. The balance is finally in place.

Arthur’s falling in deep, just like in the ruins, but now, there’s no fear or hesitation. Merlin’s dragging Arthur along with him, or he drags Merlin -- it doesn’t matter.

He imagines this is what people call “finding yourself”, but isn’t sure. Or maybe it’s sorcery. All Merlin’s stories have magic; why can’t a bit of it live inside him as well?

His eyes are closing, fingers slipping under the band of the underwear, and if the rest of the world is staying still, here, Arthur can see the birth of a new universe.  

 

 

 

 

**Today**

“And then you pretended you had the wrong person,” Arthur repeats, watching his sister intently.

Morgana fiddles in front of the mirror, carefully drawing the black pencil across the eye, smudging the line around the lid. This makeup suits her; no one can say she has no fashion sense.

“What would you do in my place, Arthur? Insist you know someone, when the guy has no recollection who you are whatsoever?”

Arthur hears the notes of irritation there but doesn’t believe them. Morgana loves drama, but that stopped working on Arthur long time ago.

“Where can I find him?” he asks, making up his mind.

Morgana turns to him, surprised, messy strands of her hair swishing around her shoulders. “You think you should talk to him?”

“Isn’t it what you wanted?” Arthur’s too tired to waste his time on pointless conversations.

“That’s your decision; I just told you what I know.” Morgana looks enticing. It’s a special gift: to seem mysterious even like this, with half-finished makeup on the right eye and barefoot.

“Then I’m picking the option ‘let’s have a little chat with Merlin’.”

Morgana smiles, looking at him approvingly, and returns to her makeup routine. “He should be at the club tonight. Come with me and see yourself.”

Arthur agrees.

Everything in the club shimmers with red and blue, the circles of color catching at the feet. The music is deafening. Arthur likes this somewhat mad atmosphere when the beat jabs itself under the skin and sends the mind into a trance; the undulating -- and for the most part, stoned -- sea of people makes Arthur feel his own individuality more acutely.

They meet Mo, Morgana’s friend, by the entrance. Mo looks fragile, but there’s unmistakable strength behind it. She has a well-trained body, like some fitness instructor, lush long locks of bleached hair, and black eyes. Mo kisses Morgana on the cheek, gliding over it with her pale-pink lips free of lipstick, greets Arthur, and the three of them step into the club.

Mo’s telling something to an intently listening Morgana, and Arthur’s surprised. Mo’s speech is clean -- a typical London accent -- he could bet she was born and raised in the city. What brought her to Newport?

They make it to the bar, where the girls take the tall bar stools and order cocktails. Arthur smirks to himself. He enjoys this show -- Morgana loves tequila and vodka, and Mo doesn’t look like one of those who goes for Cosmopolitan or apple martinis.

Turns out, Arthur doesn’t know this club. It was opened just a year ago; the place is far from hip, and he’s never heard of the DJ’s name -- it's just right for the nightlife-loving but not rich students. Arthur studies the crowd, scanning for Merlin among the dark-haired guys, but is wrong every time. He considers if it’s too late to up and leave. It started very strangely four years ago and ended the same way. Is there even a point?

Arthur remembers those days perfectly. He and Merlin spent the entire summer together, literally -- together. Almost inseparable. But even now, he has a hard time naming what it was between them, exactly.

Infatuation? No. Arthur wasn’t losing his mind and Merlin looked anything but madly in love with him. They weren't into senselessly affectionate gibberish, stupefied smiles, secret handholding, or admiring of the stars. They just had the usual guy talks and hung out together.

Lust? Not that either. They shagged, definitely. In different ways: from quick wanks, to drawn-out, unhurried sex all night long. But it never was something that defined their relationship. Arthur didn’t find Merlin overly sexy, although he could be sometimes. They simply yearned for each other time to time -- terribly, impossibly -- and there was no point in resisting that feeling.

Friendship? Arthur never complained about a lack of people around him, and he had a few loyal friends. And Merlin, in comparison, wasn’t a friend. They spent time together, but they always had different interests, with the exception of the Cusacks' house, which Merlin admired as intensely as Arthur.

There was some other bond between them, out of the norm. Perhaps there was no proper word for it, and any attempts to find it were doomed to fail.

Mo touches Morgana’s hand; startled, Morgana blows bubbles through the straw into her cocktail. Arthur arches his eyebrows and Morgana nods at somewhere behind his back.

He turns his head and sees Merlin. Or not exactly like that.

He sees a man and thinks it’s Merlin.

Memory is a strange thing; the mechanics of it remain to be a mystery, no matter what the scientists say. All this time, Arthur was sure he’d recognize Merlin instantly, even if Merlin merely zoomed by. Now he can see that he was mistaken.

The silhouette indeed looks somewhat familiar, and when Merlin starts squeezing himself through the crowd to someone on the dance floor, Arthur notes his movements, and yes -- here they are, practically imprinted into his retina. He studies Merlin, once again drinking in his image. His hair's now short, fashionably cut; he’s shot up, but still slouches; his ears are sticking out, and when the chaotically moving soffit light catches him, it highlights a well-worn leather bracelet on his wrist -- a simple accent that works.

Arthur takes a sip of tonic from his glass and feels extremely grateful for the bartender being generous with the ice in it.

“Changed a lot,” Morgana comments softly while Mo’s asking the bartender to repeat the order.

“He has.” Arthur finishes his drink, slips off the chair, and kisses his sister on the cheek. “Be good.”

Morgana jokingly pushes him away and flips him two middle fingers at once, to make a point. Arthur veers between dancing bodies, casts off his shoulders insistent fingers with the neon-bright nail polish, dodges some drunk guy with the bottle swinging above his head, and emerges right behind Merlin’s back.

“Hey.” He pats Merlin between the shoulder blades.

Merlin turns around, looking quizzically-polite, and there’s not a hint of recognition on his face.

“Pardon?” he says, leaning in. “I hope I didn’t step on your toes.”

Arthur shakes his head. It’s so like Merlin to stamp on everyone’s feet.

“It’s not about that. I’m Arthur,” he says, boring his eyes into him. Searching for at least _something_.

“Hello, Arthur.” Merlin’s friendly, but Arthur doesn’t have to be a specialist in reading facial expressions to see: Merlin wants the person annoying him to sod off. “I’m Merlin.”

“I know,” Arthur says. He didn’t have any reasons not to believe Morgana, and he thought he was prepared. Big mistake. Arthur’s lost and has no clue what to do next.

“Do we know each other?” Merlin shifts from one foot to the other and glances around the dance floor. Looking for someone. Probably his girlfriend.

Arthur barely stops himself from shooting him something like, “Yes, in every sense.” Instead, he spreads his arms. “Yes. Met four years ago. Here in Newport.”

“You’re mistaking me for someone else.” Merlin waves to some girl with dark curly hair. “I came here for the first time only a year ago. Sorry.”

Merlin disappears before Arthur manages to say anything else. It reminds him of the past.

Although, it’s not the same. Arthur shakes his head and walks towards the exit. His sister is in the good hands of an older girlfriend, he’s met Merlin, so there’s nothing else left to do here. Arthur walks out; the air is crisp and heavenly after the club. He gulps hungrily, rubs his neck, and stretches, pulling his shoulder blades together. It’s not far to his father’s house from here, so he decides to walk. He’ll pick up his car from the car park tomorrow.

The street isn’t crowded: a few guys mucking about, a tired-looking constable, a couple of girls, clutching at each other while hobbling in their high heels in the distance. Arthur pushes his hands into his pockets and walks, gazing at the neon signs, his thoughts going back to Merlin.

Four years ago, he almost made the biggest mistake of his life, enchanted by that boy.

Arthur kicks away a drinks can that fell out of the rubbish and frowns. He’d seriously considered that: transferring to Newport. To be closer to Merlin, to Morgana, and to his father. But foremost -- to Merlin. After those weeks spent by his side, Arthur already knew he’d be miserable without him.

Knew that this relationship was different. And he wouldn’t be able to just break it off, leave it all in Newport like some beat-up trainers or out-of-style jeans.

He went back to uni with every intention to see that through. Even if he were the first-ever student who traded Cambridge for the dorm in Caerleon. Arthur didn’t doubt himself then, and he wasn’t (almost) afraid of his father’s reaction. But before Arthur was able to act on it, Merlin stopped answering his calls, and a worried Morgana confirmed that Merlin no longer lived at the address provided by Arthur.

Merlin disappeared.

Arthur, of course, did everything he could. Even now, the images of a small office, of all-primmed-up secretary, and the private detective are vivid in the eye of his mind. But the hired professional didn't find a single record; Merlin disappeared without a trace, along with his mother. And in December, Arthur ended up in a session with a psychiatrist, once he realized that he wasn’t coping well by himself. The problem needed to be dealt with. Because of the deep depression mixed with anger, his performance at uni slid to a dangerous level, and that’s why he went to Dr Shelly.

Not that the sessions with her gave the desired healing effect, but she gave him one useful advice. Arthur had to channel his energy in a different way, occupy himself.

“Kill all your free time,” she suggested gently during one of the sessions. “The best way is to take up some sport, fighting, boxing. You have too much hidden aggression.”

Dr Shelly nailed the problem on the head: Arthur always needed to let out the steam. That was how he ended up in the fencing club, organized by Lance, his mate from the parallel course, who was a bit touched in the head, but nice in his own way. That club saved Arthur, and he stopped seeing Dr Shelly.

Merlin was forgotten, and Arthur’s inner balance was restored yet again with the box checked as “nothing ever happened” next to it.

Arthur stops in the middle of the street when some middle-aged man calls out for him. He's dressed in a tweed jacket and black trousers. He’s asking for a smoke, and Arthur is shaking his head no. The man mutters a curse under his breath, apologizes for disturbing him, and walks away. In a away, Arthur’s thankful. He no longer wants to ruffle through the events of the past years. Time to go home, take a shower, and have some sleep.

It’s a good plan, but Arthur doesn’t follow through with it. He showers, eats a snack, but then starts rummaging through the box with old keepsakes. There’s a lot of rubbish, but among it, he finds two things: a necklace given to him by Merlin and their picture together. The photo was taken that night when they slept together for the first time. Merlin’s hair is a mess, lips indecently dark and gaze sated. And he wears Arthur’s t-shirt. The picture was taken by Morgana, who was testing her new camera.

Arthur pushes the box back to its place, places the picture on the nightstand, and takes off his clothes. Before crawling under the covers, he rubs between his fingers the bright-red fang that looks like it’s stained with blood in the muted light of the night lamp. The chain chills his skin when Arthur pulls it over his neck.

Sleep washes over him instantly.

 

 

 

~*~

 

“That’s you.” Arthur hands Merlin the picture.

They’re sitting in the cafe on the campus territory, and Merlin looks rumpled and he isn’t eating much.

“Or Photoshop,” retorts Merlin, sparing it one glance, and yawns.

“Why would I do such rubbish?” Arthur’s anger flares up.

“You’re a psycho and this is your way to lure your victims. Or you’re bored and decided to take the piss out of me, because don’t I look like an idiot. Or…” Merlin clicks his fingers, trying to come up with another theory. “There could be tons of reasons. Maybe you’re an actor, and this is your creative experiment. Or a shrink.”

“I’m a lawyer,” Arthur protests. “You know, I feel kind of weird. I most definitely know you, and you knew me. And now you’re saying that I’m nothing but an empty space to you.”

Merlin lets go of the straw he used to drink his juice.

“We hung out together? Is that why you’re so upset?”

“Hung out,” Arthur echoes. Telling the truth wouldn’t be prudent. “Did you hit your head by any chance?”

“No.” Merlin crumples his muffin, covering himself in sugar powder, and has to lick it off his fingers. The gesture resonates with a spasm in Arthur’s groin. He wasn’t prepared for it at all. “No accidents, no falls, no fights. And I haven’t been diagnosed with amnesia, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Your mum’s name is Hunith. You don’t know who your father is. Your best friend -- Will, he lives somewhere up north.”

“Not anymore,” Merlin corrects him in a flat tone. “Street robbery. Will fought back and was stabbed.”

“I’m very sorry.” Arthur really is. He doesn’t know this Merlin, but the old one, his, was most likely very distraught.

“None of it is a secret. My mum’s name can be found in my personal file. Or maybe you hacked into my uni records. I doubt they have sophisticated security.” Merlin’s trying to speak without emotion, but Arthur can feel it: he hit the mark. Now he needs to be careful and secure the success.

“Will is also in your personal file? You talk about him calmly, so I don’t reckon it happened just a few months ago.” Arthur leans back on his chair. “And you never mentioned him to anyone here, correct?’

“What do you want?” Merlin bends forward, his lips twitching, forehead creasing in the middle. “Are you trying to drive me mad? Convince me that I have no recollection of several months of my life?”

“Those were fairly important months of your life.” Arthur rises from his chair and leans to pick up his jacket from the back of it. Unlike yesterday, it’s chilly today. The necklace slides from under the shirt and swings against the light-colored fabric.

Merlin studies it and then Arthur. He picks up the picture from the table.

“The t-shirt isn't my size,” he comments.

“It was mine. It was raining, we were soaked, and I gave it to you so you wouldn’t catch a cold. You took it and never gave it back.” Arthur isn’t telling the entire truth again. Merlin didn’t return it, and not because it slipped his mind.

“Is that why you’re stalking me?” Merlin smirks, placing a piece of muffin into his mouth. “All because I kept an old piece of rag? Want me to pay you for it?”

“Idiot.” Arthur jerks his jacket off the chair and leaves. At the exit, he bumps into the dark-skinned curly-haired girl, the same one Merlin ran to the night before at the club.

They don’t know each other, but Arthur somehow knows that her name is Gwen.

 

 

 

 

~*~

 

“Hi,” he hears from the phone’s speaker.

Arthur blinks sleepily, rubs his eyes with his hands, and can’t imagine who'd dare to call him at this godforsaken hour.

“Arthur?”

But his name, said with slight accent, slots everything into place.

“What do you want, Merlin?” He yawns soundly and doesn't try to cover it.

“I spoke with my mum. She found an old t-shirt in my stuff. Red. Not my size. With the print half-washed out on the front.”

Arthur turns onto his stomach and faceplants into the pillow.

“And you decided…” He finally looks up at the clock and rolls his eyes. Half-past six... buggering, bloody Merlin! Half-past six? But then… “Were you out on the piss?”

“Not successfully.” Merlin’s voice becomes muffled, but then returns as suddenly as it went away. “I wasted a good third of my money on drinks. Gwen was in a tizzy and left in the middle of the night, and I still failed to get plastered.”   

“What stops me from hanging up and not being arsed about you and your problems?” Arthur asks in the most frosty and indifferent tone he can muster.

“You said we knew each other.” Despite drunken bravado, there’s so much insecurity In Merlin’s voice, Arthur just sighs. At least Merlin doesn’t know _how well_ they knew each other.

“Go have some sleep, then ring me again. We’ll meet and try to figure out what shite made you forget everything,” Arthur suggests. “How did you find my number?”

“Morgana.” Merlin’s slurring, almost inaudibly. “I thought she must have it. And she was the one who told me… whatever... from her.”

“All right.” Arthur yawns again, feeling his eyes closing. “Call me this afternoon.”

Merlin mumbles something in agreement and ends the call. Arthur falls asleep, certain that Merlin’s going to forget both the agreement to meet and the promise to call.

At three o’clock, Arthur’s mobile comes to life again. He looks at the flashing on the screen numbers, for a few seconds fighting the irrational desire to ignore the call, but answers it. Half an hour later, he’s sitting in the cafe, waiting for the waitress in a starched apron and with a drizzle of freckles on her nose to bring him an espresso, while Merlin's hiding his eyes behind sunglasses and trying not to make any sudden moves.

“You know, one day, I plan to earn my PhD, but it won’t have any correlation to medicine.” Arthur crosses one leg over the other. His right hand is relaxed on the table; left hangs on the side.

“Please, not so loud,” Merlin begs in a miserable voice. “Before I got pissed, I looked up amnesia on the net.”

“Decided I could help you to trigger some memories?” Arthur tastes brought for him coffee. The drink here is still as good as he remembers it.

“No. I mean, I’m more concerned why it happened than what exactly I forgot,” Merlin admits and takes off his glasses. He looks moderately shitty. Red-rimmed eyes, all rumpled, dry lips. Arthur catches himself on a desire to fuck him right here and now.

“I heard you were in the ruins,” Arthur says, switching topics.

Merlin grimaces, takes a long sip, and chews on his bottom lip.

“You mean the abandoned house on Queen’s Way? The Cusacks'?”

“Yes.” The word drops like a stone into a lake. With a heavy, cold splash.

“I stopped by a couple of weeks ago. Was in the neighborhood by some chance, stumbled upon it, and went in out of curiosity.” Merlin’s so sincere, Arthur wants to punch him.

“Four years ago, we loved spending our time there. Sit around, talk.” Arthur reins in his imagination and memories again. The house was their place, in every sense of the word.

Merlin grimly gazes at the mat on the table, but Arthur doubts it’s because he’s interested in the ad with a special offer. He looks even more miserable than before.

Arthur pulls a few banknotes from his pocket and leaves them on the table.

“Let’s go there. Together.”

Merlin finishes his coffee in one go, places his glasses back on his nose, which makes him look like a gigantic insect -- a fly or a mantis -- and follows him.

Queen’s Way is jam-packed with cars, and they are moving excruciatingly slow. Arthur’s having a hard time handling himself, his emotions building and building up, as if someone plugged the sink but didn’t turn off the water all the way. He has to be helpful, but he’s upset and angry; he’s furious about the four years of separation and would gladly forgive the cowardly disappearance due to some strenuous circumstances. He misses the past and he’s scared of the future; he’s confused, embarrassed, lost, and now, possibly, in love. And on top of that all, he’s jealous.

He’s so immersed into the mess of his problems that he nearly misses the right exit. The road is terrible, the car rattling on every bump, and Arthur turns the engine off about a quarter mile away from the destination. The rest they make on foot.

Merlin’s now nearly ashen, with a hint of green. But he doesn’t complain. Doesn’t want to or doesn’t dare to -- Arthur doesn’t care. They stay silent, and Merlin keeps slightly behind. The Cusacks' residence gradually comes to the view: the roof, the second storey, then the porch on the first. The decorative pillars, severely damaged by termites; the ivy stems; the leaf of the window shutter, tap-tapping in the former bedroom. Arthur steps on the flimsy boards of the floor; the house is completely dilapidated, and they have to be very careful. Merlin follows him sluggishly, step-to-step. Arthur leads him to the kitchen. This place, undoubtedly, is the most memorable one. Merlin stares at the window sill, out of which he nearly fell years ago, and doesn’t recognize a thing. That’s obvious.

Despair rakes through Arthur. He wants to slap Merlin or press him to the rotten panels -- wants to do _something_. He’s used to trusting his intuition, and he’s sure: it won’t change anything. It was a bad idea; there’s nothing to gain here.

Merlin shuffles from foot to foot, sighs. His long arms are stretched along his gangly body, his Adam’s apple jerking each time he swallows noisily; he blinks rapidly at the bright sunlight piercing through the gaps between the panels of the old house.

Arthur makes one last attempt. He tells Merlin one of their made-up stories, the most beautiful out of all Merlin’s tales. How the prince and the servant were ready to give their lives for each other, to drink poison. Merlin listens intently, not asking any questions or interrupting, and without a hint of skepticism on his face. When Arthur finishes, he places a hand on his shoulder.

“No joy,” he says. His face’s scrunched up as if he’s about to cry.

Arthur pushes the hand off his shoulder and walks out of the house.

In the car, Arthur calms down. He knows this feeling: when everything shuts down inside. But now he can think with better clarity, without doing something foolish. Somewhere deep in the recess of his mind, everything is howling in pain, in anguish, and a simple, “I missed you so much,” but he ignores it. The tires rustle on the sand, spraying mini-fountains of dust from under them. The car merges into the motorway. The even, grey fabric of the road spreads ahead, creating an illusion that it’s possible to drive far away, run and disappear.

Arthur brakes at the entrance of the campus, and Merlin clumsily stumbles out of the car. He mumbles his goodbyes and is about to leave, and Arthur realizes that this is it. Nothing ever again. So he sticks out of the window and calls Merlin in a low voice. Merlin grudgingly turns around and takes a step back to the car.

“I didn’t tell you the whole truth,” Arthur says. “We didn’t just know each other. All that summer… we fucked. And you loved it, Merlin. And by the way, I was your first.”

The tires kick out more dust, covering Merlin up to his knees, and Arthur leaves, almost happy.

Vindicated.

 

 

 

  
**Tomorrow**

 

Merlin doesn’t call his mum. He’s tempted: to dial the number, hear her voice, and ask her a question. But he knows what she’ll say; the call won’t prove anything, and he has to deal with it by himself.

Has to find the answer.

Gwen slams the door, the staccato of her heels echoing in the hallway. Merlin settles on the window sill and closes his eyes. He’s tired. He can’t relax, Arthur’s words swirling and swirling around in his head. Arthur’s eyes on him. Arthur’s hands.

Merlin feels like he remembers. But it’s not really true. Or more like -- he can imagine it, easily -- the kisses, bodies twined together, whispers in the middle of the night. The problem is that he believes Arthur -- or that he wants to believe him.

But the most terrifying thing is not that, of course, but something else. Merlin isn’t angry. He’s just so lost and can do nothing but sit around and let that exhausting feeling of misery and unease gnaw deep inside him. The answer is there somewhere, but he’s not all that sure it’s worth looking for.

Arthur left, and Merlin can bet he’ll never bother him again. Something broke inside Arthur after that trip to the house; he won’t be back, he’ll leave him alone. And Merlin’s mind tells him that yes -- this is right.

Merlin never does what’s right. That’s why he climbs off the sill, pulls off the t-shirt damp from the sweat and goes to shower. The water is cold and yellowish -- the pipes are rusty on the campus. It beats on his shoulders and abdomen, taps at his penis, which makes him brush over it without thinking, and swirls with a low growl around the drain. Merlin turns off the taps; they grunt from strain, resistant to obey. He shakes his head like a dog, quickly rubs all over himself with the towel and, pulling on just the boxers, goes back to his room.

He doesn’t keep a lot of old stuff. Just like his mum, who’s still in a habit of moving around and doesn’t stay anywhere for long. She’s always busy with things that have nothing to do with Merlin.

The problem is, he doesn’t know where to begin. He doesn’t find anything new on the net -- all the links say the same thing, sites flipping one after another in front of his eyes. He goes through the explanations, the reasons for losing memories, and can’t shake off the feeling this is all wrong. What happened to him was something entirely different.

Merlin closes the lid of his laptop and absentmindedly brushes over the warm black cover. This is the first time in his life he regrets not keeping some sort of a blog or a simple diary. That’s where he’d probably…

He doesn’t finish that thought. Merlin frowns, trying to catch the memory by the tail. A yellowish plain paper, a faded binding, a knocked-off corner brace, a rolled-in bus ticket, a dog-eared by him page.

He obviously didn’t drink enough yesterday. Or was it today? Merlin can’t be sure anymore. Still, he rises to his feet and starts rummaging through his things on the shelves, methodically checking notebook after notebook. Papers from lectures mixed with unintelligible notes, someone else’s books he never gave back; he finds a few condoms and chewing gum, but of course there’s nothing resembling an old leather-bound notepad. Merlin bites his lips in irritation, rubs his chin, and wanders around the room, until he steps barefoot on the Coca-Cola cup. The red plastic flies into the rubbish can, Merlin pushes it off with a clatter, and turns around.

Jeans, sweater, a bottle of water. They missed something in that bloody house. Merlin will figure it out, right now, without Arthur.

The Cusacks' house meets him with silence. A peaceful feeling washes over Merlin as he walks around, touches peeling-off paint on the walls, brushes the dust off with his finger from the cracked surface of the bookshelf, and, looking out the window, watches the undulating sea of greenery, covering everything as far as he can see. It’s a bit stifling inside, but still feels good. Merlin finishes searching on the first storey and climbs up onto the second. It’s not that easy with his knees covered in dry rot, and there’s a splinter in his palm. Merlin digs it out with the pocket knife and presses his mouth to the bleeding cut.

This room is the worse for wear of them all. There’s almost nothing left: broken chair, a dirty piece of rag in the corner… Even the panels covering the walls are coming off, bulged up and buckling under the pressure of time.

He frowns, and it’s as if someone nudges his hand. Merlin takes a better grip on his knife and jabs under the nearest panel. There’s nothing under it, except for crumbling stone and dead insects. But Merlin doesn’t give up. He tears them off one by one, stocking them up, and keeps moving. He hits jackpot on the second wall. One particular panel comes off especially easily, and behind it -- a shallow niche. Merlin removes the contents of it, tears off the clear plastic, stapled on the corners. The binding is in bad shape, covered with ugly, uneven holes. Merlin traces his nail over the edge, touching the metal piece adorning the corner. He takes a ten-pence out of his pocket and flips it in the air. A lion -- and Merlin won’t touch the notepad. The coin drops on the floor, dancing and twirling on the edge, and settles down with a plunk. Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, looks at Merlin with reproach.

Merlin tucks the pad into the front of his jeans, pulling the sweater over it, and jumps down. For a moment, his own movement seems vaguely familiar, but the feeling passes quickly. He glances back, bidding the house goodbye, and walks down, without looking at his feet. And only when his trainers dip into the soft black soil does he realize that he hasn’t stepped on a single rotten board.

The road back always seems faster. Merlin can’t explain the paradox of it and doesn’t want to clutter his mind with such rubbish. The pad’s warmed up and clings to the skin of his stomach, scorching it, keeping his thoughts on it. But he can’t concentrate on anything in particular. Merlin can’t rid himself of Arthur’s voice in his head, from his “we fucked”, from the delicious hot wave, washing over him every time he thinks about it. He’s confused. His simple, straightforward life -- uni, lectures, seldom chats with his mum, uncomplicated romance with Gwen -- all that doesn’t reflect who he is, doesn’t belong to him.

But Arthur, a stranger -- peculiar and baffling -- does.

Merlin rattles on the bus, lazily watching through the window the scenery gliding by. Houses, roads, houses again. His campus. He nods to Mrs Hedger at the entrance, but doesn’t go to his room. The stands of the small stadium on the uni grounds are open. He settles on one of the top rows, takes a sip from the water bottle he had with him, and gazes down. A manicured lawn, the white markup on the field, empty benches -- not a trace of all the madness happening here in the spring. Now it’s calm and quiet. Merlin closes his eyes and sees the flapping banners on the poles, the wind tearing at the red canvas; a sharp, keen sound of trumpet rings in the ears, the clank of clashing metal cuts through air; it smells like freshly shaved wood and blood.

Merlin opens his eyes and pulls out the notepad.

Hesitation's over. Merlin breaks it open on the first page and starts reading - methodically, not just looking for some big events. Otherwise it makes no sense. The very first note has a date and location, and Merlin can see that Arthur didn’t lie.

It’s not exactly a diary. Comments on different topics are mixed with the grocery lists from his mum, with sketches and unreadable notes and abbreviations. Among the latter he finds a letter “A” a lot, and the timestamps. Also, there are occasional strange names with the question marks next to them, and even a table of names once. But it doesn’t explain anything.

Merlin skips through a few pages and finds another note. He blushes -- instantly -- his face turns hot, toes curling in anticipation of the unimaginable. The narrated description is extremely detailed, every delicious moment of it -- brazen, vivid, impossibly _satisfied_.

Merlin presses his knees together and tries to catch his breath. His body slowly calms down, the tension in his groin seeps away. Paper, yellow from time clings to his fingers, rustling softly under the whispers of the chilly evening breeze. Merlin pours the rest of the water over his head, spits and snorts, and goes back, diving into his own forgotten happiness.

Or maybe -- not happiness. As he reads, the worry, tension, longing and confusion are lacing through the words more and more often. There’s a break between the notes for two weeks, and when they are back, Merlin’s hurting by the every deliberately-neat letter. And this pain is a blessing -- it distracts from the meaning of the words.

And this time, Merlin doesn’t believe it. He knows he wouldn’t lie to himself but refuses to believe with desperate, hopeless determination.

He’s probably gone bonkers. Or maybe he’s just dreaming. Or maybe Arthur played a practical joke on him, leaving these notes there. Or…

Merlin extends his hand, whispers softly the word on the page, and an empty drinks can freezes at the corner of the bench, levitating, the silver edge shimmering in the air. He doesn’t feel any different. Everything’s the same as always. Except, he can do magic.

Right now, it’s difficult to reconcile that everything written in that journal is a piece of his life. He’s contemplating, separating himself from the events of the past. From the unwelcome dreams, splashes of… energy (“Magic,” he whispers softly. “Magic!”), from the invisible scars he could practically feel under the tips of his fingers when he touched Arthur. That was happening with some other Merlin, in the distant past, many months ago. And _that_ Merlin gave up.

Too much guilt, too little courage.

That Merlin decided that he could make his “tomorrow” better. And he was wrong. That “tomorrow” stretched into four long years, made a loop back, and returned right where it started -- once again pulled into where he was supposed to be all along.

Next to Arthur. Just like the rest of them.

The last pages of the notepad are empty, and Merlin blindly traces over the papers, only feeling the rough texture under the tips of his fingers and nothing more. But he already knows what’s hidden there. A string of towns, of schools, swapped one after another, restlessness, lonely evenings, faceless girls, Will’s death, sweet smell of pot, Mum’s tired voice, uni entrance exams, transfer to Caerleon, and this, his last move to Newport.

These pages should be filled with something else.

Merlin gets up, squeezes the notepad between his fingers (they leave wet imprints on the cover), and runs down, veering between the seats. He walks down the road, smiles, mumbles greetings to the girls nodding to him and the mates, extending their hands for a shake, and enters a campus building. The numbering system here is the same as in his wing. Merlin walks unhurriedly, finds the room he needs, and takes a deep breath before knocking. Kurt Cobain stares at the visitor indifferently.

“Hyia,” Morgana says, opening before Merlin’s knuckles touch the door covered with wood panels. “Come on in.”

It’s pleasantly chilly in the room; the windows are closed, but an old air conditioner in the corner pushes out the air. A blouse, left on the back of the chair, flails its sleeves under the breeze in a helpless, steady movement. Merlin sits farther away from it and waits. Morgana doesn’t disappoint.

“Finally remembered?” she asks casually, settling right on the floor and crosses her legs, with her heels on the top of her shapely thighs.

“Not exactly.” The plastic bag dropped on the table floats slowly in the air and lands in the basket with papers.

Morgana smiles.

“Going to run again?” She stretches forward and picks up a comb from the table. The comb starts gliding up and down, again and again.

“No,” Merlin says sincerely. “But I still understand very little. When did you…”

“When Arthur and I were brought together.” Morgana shrugs. “Just like everyone else. It’s simple, Merlin.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Not for me.”

“It took me a long time,” she explains, pushing already-brushed locks behind her shoulder. “My dreams were vague, and I was too little. Then they became better. More detailed, clearer. But it all came together when you entered the picture.”

“I still don’t remember that summer.” Merlin is ashamed to admit it.

“It’s all right.” Morgana’s voice is full of empathy. “What do you need to understand?”

“Why is this happening?” Merlin tries to formulate.

“Because you never listened to anyone. Even Arthur. And especially me.” Morgana gives him a warm smile. “I tried to convince you, but it was all for nothing. You lost it when you saw Mordred stabbing him. And I was too afraid to argue with you.”

“What did I do?” Merlin probably doesn’t need an answer, but it’s easier to talk than keep silent.

“You took his body to Avalon. You think you told anyone what exactly you magicked there? Oh, no.” Morgana smirks. “But you came back… lighter. You said that Arthur will return, and everything will be all right. You weren’t in your right mind -- we all thought so.”

“And then all this started?” Merlin isn’t sure he’s that interested to know.

Morgana nods with an absent expression.

“Yes. Century after century. I didn’t understand right away, what kind of agreement you’d made there, and then, for the longest time, I couldn’t believe it was even possible. To exchange Arthur’s life for the balance and harmony in the world -- that was brave, even for you.”

“What?” Merlin’s baffled.

Morgana takes a pause, thinking.

“I’m not sure how to explain this. Arthur is a guarantee that everything is going to be all right. More or less. He exists -- and things are well with us. Something like that. He doesn’t have to do anything special; it’s not required. But he has to exist in this world -- like all of us.”

“How many people?” Merlin rubs the bridge of his nose. “I found my notes, and there are unfamiliar names. Gaius, for example...?”

“He works with our father, with Uther.” Morgana pins her hair using a flashy clasp, leaving her neck open. “And then there’s Lancelot. He went to uni with Arthur. Mordred’s still wandering around somewhere. He hasn’t found us yet.”

Merlin feels sick.

“Is he going to kill Arthur? When he finds him?”

Morgana looks at him in surprise and nearly misses returning the haircomb back on the table.

“No. We don’t have to copy our past lives. Even then, one way or another, we all end up where we belong. Arthur’s family. His friends. Enemies. Love. All as it should be. We are drawn to him. He’s -- the core, the magnet, the essence. We’re able to live without him, but it’s just… dull.”

Merlin understands what she means. _Dull_. This is it.

“Our names,” he remembers. “They’re strange.”

“Has anyone ever asked you why you were named that way? Laughed at it?” Morgana looks at him sharply, something shining in her eyes, similar to the anticipation of a triumph.

“Never.” Merlin is honest.

“That’s because these are _our_ names; they’ve belonged to us for such a long time that they suit us perfectly. They fit.” Morgana’s happy about it. Proud. “And magic -- it still protects us and keeps itself hidden. It doesn’t occur to anyone they see anything strange.”

Merlin eyes the flailing blouse on the chair. It’s all clear now about what happened then. He’d realized what he’d done and couldn’t handle it. It’s not all that brilliant to find out that because of you the person you love is doomed to reincarnate over and over again. And possibly -- not all of those reincarnations are pleasant. And in addition to that -- doomed his family and a good half of his friends. So Merlin has found an appropriate spell, hidden the diary -- just in case -- and allowed himself to fall into the bliss of ignorance.

“I betrayed him,” Merlin sums up, announcing it out with a kind of masochistic pleasure. “ _Betrayed_ him.”

“He was miserable,” Morgana confirms, and for the first time, Merlin hears admonishment there. Her green eyes stare right at him: hold, sharp, and without the usual mirth that reminds him of Arthur so much.

“Did he love me?” Merlin isn’t sure all the way what he means exactly when he uses the word “love”.

The sharp reproach disappears from Morgana’s eyes, melts like butter left in the sun.

“You were his air,” she says softly. “And he was yours. I couldn’t believe you would ever give him up.”

Merlin sighs.

“I want to fix everything.”

“You lost your memories.” Morgana pensively scratches the mosquito bite on her calf. “What’s going to stop you from leaving him again?”

“You said it, I’m drawn to him.” Merlin gets up and, rushing to her side, sits next to her on the floor. “Should I tell him? About the past lives?”

“No.” Morgana touches his shoulders and lowers her hand. “He’ll figure it out on his own when the time comes. That would be easier. For everyone.”

“That’s lying,” Merlin disagrees.

“You used to be good at keeping secrets,” Morgana counters.

Merlin doesn’t argue with her. He kisses her pale hand, brushing his thumb over her wrist, and rises to his feet.

When he opens the door to leave, Morgana tells him the address and the security codes.

 

 

 

 

~*~

 

Merlin’s glad he didn’t go to see Arthur right away. Before falling asleep, he re-reads the notes in the journal and some of the pages start coming to life in his mind. It’s a bit strange, but the feeling reminds him of a field full of a spiring harvest of wheat -- long, thin stems crowned by the thick braid with spikes -- and somewhere behind them are forgotten chapters of his past.

Of their past.

There’s no more confusion. He isn’t concerned that his entire previous life turned out to be not a life exactly, but a long road, which should very soon… not end, but change drastically. Yes, that’s it. Time to discover a new destination.

By the morning, he’s tired of having the objects chased around the room by just a thought; his lids turn heavy and he falls asleep, but not for long. A giddy excitement doesn’t let him stay in bed: Merlin hastily washes up, drops his keys into his pocket, and runs down the stairs. He takes a seat in the back of the of bus, turns his face to the sun, and squeezes his eyes. The last time he saw Arthur was two days ago -- and the longing for him is gnawing at him, eating him inside.

Merlin can’t imagine how Arthur lived all those four years -- _remembering_. Nausea rolls in his gut, induced by a sharp feeling of guilt, but Merlin forbids himself to think of the past. He’ll fix it.

The house is big and gorgeous, well-maintained, _respectable_. Merlin quickly punches the security code, unlocking the gates, and walks in. The path to the house is swept off clean; no one’s in the garden. Merlin makes it to the door and enters one more code. Morgana didn’t explain to him where Arthur’s room is, but he doesn’t need it. It’s like there’s a GPS navigation inside him, the same one that led him to the Cusacks' house, and last year -- to Caerleon.

Merlin pushes another door with his shoulder and falls into the room. Arthur’s standing in the middle. He’s wearing shorts and has a string with a bright-red fang on his neck. He’s drying his wet hair with the towel and when he turns to the sound, the drops of water sparkle on his shoulder and his hair sticks out in every direction.

“What the buggering hell?” he asks, dropping the towel on the floor.

“I came for help.” Merlin tries really hard to contain his smile. “I can’t sort out the ending for a new story.”

He sees that Arthur’s angry, but besides that, there’s such an array of emotions behind his eyes, Merlin is swept by the desire to do something completely mad. He’s so happy to be here, he’s ready to start confessing to Arthur about every single thing.

“Morgana.” Arthur nods in the meanwhile, probably sorting out how Merlin managed to get into the house. “You remembered? So fast?”

“Yes, her,” Merlin confirms. “I don’t remember everything. But some things, yes. You were right about the house. I went back there and everything started coming together. I-- Arthur…”

Merlin stumbles, tangled in hundreds of words, ready to trip off the tip of his tongue. There are things he better wait to share, and some of them shouldn’t be voiced at all. And Merlin has no desire ruining it for himself. In his temples, it thrums, “Love-you-love-you-love-you,” mixed with “Missed you,” and “Hug me,” and “Forgive me,” and “Please let me touch you,” and Arthur probably can read his mind.

“ _Idiot_ ,” he says fondly, not moving. But in his pose and his expression, there’s so much _permission_ that Merlin takes the first step himself. He clings to Arthur, to his damp skin, inhaling his smell -- of a shower gel, aftershave, toothpaste -- and under it all, is a vaguely familiar scent that sends goosebumps, sharp across his entire body.

Merlin kisses him without any preamble or warning, glides his mouth over his neck, trying to sate himself and knowing that it will never be possible. Arthur hums softly, his throat vibrating, and Merlin loses his mind completely. It's not easy to stop the delirious licking of that sweet spot behind Arthur’s ear, but Arthur pulls him up, finds his mouth, and possessively bites his bottom lip. Arthur’s hands splay on the small of his back, slide lower, caress his hips and his arse. Leisurely, slowly, without a hint of hesitation in his right to take.

Merlin is going mad from wanting to be owned, to melt in, to give himself completely. It’s an apology, and a display of willingness to fix his mistakes, and a pure, unadulterated desire to become one with Arthur -- like pieces of a puzzle or a Lego construction Merlin used to play with as a kid.

Arthur neatly trips him off his feet, and together they fall into the undone bed. Merlin ends up on the top; he grinds, rubs, and chaotically ruts himself all over Arthur, finding in that such an immense pleasure, it’s not comparable with anything he’s ever felt before. He's gasping for air while Arthur undresses him, quickly and hungrily, and manages to swipe greedy strokes across Merlin's sides, kiss his shoulder, pinch his bum. Merlin pushes his hands under the band of Arthur's shorts, frustrated that he can’t feel Arthur entirely under his palm, and hisses for him to take off his clothes. Arthur laughs, leans in, and growls, biting the sticking-out ear, and wraps his arms around Merlin's neck; pressing on it hard, he pulls Merlin down while still sucking on the flesh of his earlobe.

Merlin tries to push him away, not realizing that he’s clinging to him ever so more, and kicks him, аchieving one thing: Arthur rolls over, and, capturing Merlin’s hands, sits on top of him and bends over.

“I love you so much,” Merlin whispers, arching his neck.

Arthur’s eyes go completely wild. His mouth twitches, his cheeks blushing pink. He presses his mouth to Merlin’s chin, exhaling a warm breath onto his skin, and slides lower. Vampire-sharp teeth worry Merlin's throat, and a spasm pierces through his groin when Arthur decides to shift a little and their erections touch. They kiss, not hard, but on and on. They missed each other too much. Merlin licks into Arthur’s mouth, breathes noisily, rubs himself again against Arthur’s warm, familiar body. Arthur leans away from another kiss, teases Merlin, catching his lips, and leans away again. Merlin growls impatiently, chases after him until Arthur stops playing games.

Merlin’s tongue finds a small prickling patch of the hair on Arthur’s upper lip missed during shaving. And images start flashing before his eyes, pulling him into the past where something like this has already happened. Merlin pushes those memories away. He suspects that they’ve already done it all in every way imaginable -- in all those years together -- but he doesn’t want to remember. He wants to feel it all over again anew.

Losing a sense of reality doesn’t go unnoticed: Arthur doesn’t waste any time. Merlin spreads his legs and widens his eyes when Arthur starts fondling him, circling the ring of a muscle with a finger wet from spit. It’s sudden and so heavenly, so impossibly good, Merlin's seriously considering demanding something crude. He isn’t sure he can utter, “Fuck me,” or even simple, “Take me,” but at the end, Arthur doesn’t care for his begging. He doesn’t need to think what to do and what -- not.

It hurts just a little: Arthur’s big, but he’s also gentle and careful. The ripe tip finally disappears inside Merlin, and Merlin relaxes, stops twisting the covers between his fingers, and nods when he hears a fairly logical question.

“Quite,” he answers, listening to how he feels. He isn’t scared or ashamed, which he most certainly would be if he even tried to imagine this just a week ago.

Arthur moves, hard and steady. The fang on his neck swings in sync, hypnotizing and pulling Merlin into a smooth rhythm. Merlin locks his hands and his legs around Arthur. The penetration becomes immediately deeper, tighter, reaches the edge between, _God, more!_ and, _Please, stop!_

Arthur stills, searching Merlin’s face. And Merlin is about to ask to, "Please don’t stop," but Arthur ruins that plan.

“Why?”

There’s no need to clarify. Merlin grimaces, leaves frustrated scratches on Arthur’s back, but Arthur doesn’t even flinch.  

“Please, later,” Merlin moans, trying to move himself.

“Now.” Arthur smoothly tilts his hips forward, pressing on Merlin’s prostate, and Merlin loses all his speech for awhile, experiencing acute pleasure.

“I chickened out,” he mutters when the colorful spots stop dancing in front of his eyes. “Was scared.”

“Going to do that again?” Arthur looks stern, but behind that harshness is such hope, Merlin doesn’t have it in him to feel offended.

“No.” Merlin tenses his muscles, tightening around Arthur to keep him in the vice of his own body. “Never.”

Arthur looks like a loon again. His next movement is sharper and harder than it was before, and Merlin’s legs almost slide off because of the tremble raking through his body from hips to toes. The delirious feeling abates quickly, but everything is so intense, all Merlin can do is cling to the damp hair on the nape of Arthur’s neck. With the free hand he squeezes his own erection, smartly avoiding the head. He slowly slides his palm down to the base. The veins stand out, bulging under his fingers along the length.  Arthur curses and pushes Merlin’s hand away, replacing it with his own. His pupils are huge, and his mouth is open in silent groan. The pad of his thumb glides carelessly up, up, reaching the ridge on the underside, and moves even higher. Arthur circles it, smearing the beaded drop around, and Merlin’s tossed up. He comes, choking on his scream, muffling it with his own fist and failing at it completely. Arthur spills next, as if swept away by the wave of Merlin’s orgasm.

“I love you for four years more,” he says a little later, when Merlin’s slumping next to him, covering his chest with slow kisses.

Merlin considers it, making calculations in his head, fascinated by the thought whether they could even be framed into an idea like this. Morgana’s words come to his mind again. She talked as if what's happened in this life and then, some centuries ago -- is just one long yesterday. And between that past and this one -- no difference whatsoever.

Arthur touches Merlin’s jaw, drawing back his attention.

“My fault?” Merlin smiles.

“No,” Arthur says very seriously. “But… I have to think.”

Merlin doesn’t ask what about. It’s obvious: now Arthur is going to decide what they are going to do next, and later, when the summer break is over. How to make it all work. Merlin knows that no one is going to ask for his opinion, like no one has asked for it before, but he's not offended. It’s Arthur’s job: weigh in options and issue orders. Or, what's his favorite saying?... _You’ll be informed?_

Regardless, Merlin is relieved, obeying him.

He's curious about how it all works in Arthur’s head. Arthur knows so little, and from his perspective, everything must look strange, sudden, unclear. It’s good that he doesn’t have a habit of contemplating people’s reasonings; he accepts their actions as given and acts accordingly. It doesn’t matter if he’s the greatest king or just a lawyer.

Arthur remains Arthur.

Merlin hopes Morgana didn’t lie and Arthur will remember. And if not -- Merlin will tell him. Everything inside him stands against secrecy, although some of the confessions can wait.

He lies down flat on the pillow, rubs against it, then turns to the side and pulls at the chain on Arthur’s neck. Arthur doesn’t resist him, leans closer until their lips touch. Arthur loves to snog, too.

Merlin tosses his hand over Arthur’s shoulder, wedges his knee between Arthur’s legs, and earns a slap. A palm comes back to his backside, caresses skin, raising the hairs all over his body. Merlin clings to Arthur, shamelessly and insistently. He thinks that first of all he wants to know about their summer together. The journal doesn’t have all the details, and he has no clue how to find the spell to bring everything back, to reverse the block on his memories. But he believes that the magic he’s used to having will show him the way soon.

Morgana said that it will become easier with Arthur; they'll settle down. And Merlin feels it -- she’s right. They don’t need any more words or explanations. He stops beating himself up, no longer scared about being pulled into the string of the lives they keep living. This is eternity, and Merlin’s glad.

Arthur’s lying next to him, pressing his palms to Merlin’s stomach and kissing him. Merlin can almost hear how he compartmentalizes everything, analyzes, thinking it through. Maybe Morgana isn’t right, and it’s actually important that Arthur doesn’t simply exist. Maybe he’s really some constant, necessary for the complex formulas of the universe, without which all other variables fall away and the solution is impossible to find?

Merlin closes his eyes and twines his fingers with Arthur’s. No matter how it is, Merlin will stay by his side, with all of them. He’ll still be helping Gwen with her math problems and with assembling the shelves bought at IKEA. He’ll start dropping by Morgana’s to talk about Nirvana and to have a few shots of chilled vodka. He’ll stop avoiding Morgause’s gaze. He’ll meet Gaius and Lancelot. And he’ll become Arthur’s shadow; Arthur simply won’t let it be any other way.

And everything will be lost again in a blurry vortex of life, the old lines erased, and will make them forget about bitter “yesterday”, lonely “today”, and hopeless “tomorrow”.

Merlin turns his face to the breeze coming from the outside and remembers what he always knew.

Arthur and he are beyond time.

 


End file.
